


you couldn't have done that on a sunday

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-31
Updated: 2008-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:37:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione starts digging even further, uncovers an abstract on MIT's website that has "D. Malfoy" as the primary author. Quantum physics, zero-point energy, and an unlimited power source. It's not until she breaks a pencil neatly down the grain that she realizes what Draco is trying to do: He's trying to uncover the source of all magic, and possibly, tap into that source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you couldn't have done that on a sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ethrosdemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethrosdemon/gifts).



> I found this languishing in my Google Docs; motivation and inspiration in the form of **ethrosdemon**. I'm pretty sure I was writing this for her, if only to excise my filthy Hermione/Draco thoughts and inspire her to write the Draco POV. 
> 
> All these years later, I'm still obsessed w/ the idea of connection between science and magic, and how someone could exploit that for good and evil. Also think Dr. R gave me his PhD opinion on the validity of my science -- a conversation which degraded into a discussion about writing really awkward porn for kicks.
> 
> Note that there are plenty of author's notes, and brackets to insert names/ideas/concepts.

Hermione is three days away from defending her masters' thesis ("The Schizophrenic Critique of Pure Reason in [INSERT WIZARD NAME]'s Early Novels") when she comes home to a picture of Draco Malfoy on the cover of the international edition of _The Prophet_ _("Twice a fortnight, and once a week during the high holidays or on anniversaries of Harry Potter being awesome!")_. She has not thought of Draco Malfoy for about 10 months, 2 days, and 5 hours (it was the last time Ron had visited, which was also coincidentally, the first time they had broken up and it stuck and the last time she had sex), and even then, it wasn't charitably – it was more of a "wonder what happened to him?" type of thing, to which Ron replied, "Heard he fucked off to get some degree in physicals or something – no idea, probably buggering old gents or something."

 

So, to see him splashed across the Prophet, looking quite sympathetic, with his chin softened a bit by age, his hair loosely tied back with a simple ribbon, and his eyes fluttering shut as his lips pursed sadly, well, needless to say, she was in a bit a of a shock. _"Malfoy sues Ministry for wand displayed in Wizardsonian Museum,"_ the headline screams. Well, not really, but it's pretty damned big. _"Claims his property was seized during wartime by an overzealous government body and demands reparations." "Rising star barrister and war hero Neville Longbottom, who is representing Mr. Malfoy, comments, ' I simply would like to see the Ministry do the right thing.'"_

 

Hermione thinks that maybe she fell asleep at the library or something, and if she just stops moving and sits very quietly, she'll wake up and this will all be some ridiculous dream. Which is why she is still sitting there staring at the article as the picture loops again and again, counting Draco's eyelashes for Merlin knows how long.

 

Nora comes home and makes a spectacular racket in the front room. "I'm home, my loves! I would kill for a Chinese right about now, what do you say?"

 

Hermione is quick enough to shuffle the paper open and appear to be engrossed in something about the exchange rage of the Knut on the open market (good against the dollar, crap against the yen), but not quick enough to fold the paper back so Draco's picture is obscured. Nora has a keen eye for attractive, damaged men. Hermione's seen it in action. Most of their neighbors have heard it, as well.

 

Nora clears her throat and plucks the page from Hermione's fingers. "Hello, hello, darling, who are _you_?"

 

*

 

The first thing Hermione does once she shakes Nora off her tail is to call Harry. Actually, the first thing she does is close the door to her bedroom and enact some incredible powerful wards that render the person trying to enter her room dreadfully warm and unable to wear clothes for a period of time. Nora thinks it's a gas, while Hannah is appropriately scandalized.

 

Harry answers on the fourteenth ring, mid-sentence. "COME ON NOW YOU BUNCH OF PANTY-SNIFFING BASTARDS—Oh! Hermione! Brilliant, how are you?"

 

There's the sound of Quidditch on surround-sound in the background. Harry's become quickly obsessed with spending the Black fortune on the most expensive Muggle accoutrements available.

 

"Harry, what is this about Draco suing the Ministry?"

 

"Uh, what's that, 'Mione?" Harry starts shouting again, something about somebody's mother needing a thorough cleaning under the hood. At least that's what Hermione thinks he's saying.

 

"Draco Malfoy is suing the Ministry!" She's shouting now, and feeling quite enraged. Harry does that to her. It's part of the reason she fucked off to Australia for school. That and the fact that she was fucking done with England, but that's neither here nor there."And Neville is his attorney and he got firsts at King's College, Draco, that is, and he's being fought over by MIT, Berkeley and CalTech for his PhD residency! In physics!"

 

There's a beat, and she thinks she's lost him to the sports coverage. But then there's silence, oppressively booming as the phone crackles. "What's that?" Harry asks, having turned off the telly. "He went to King's? Fucking wanker, he is. Never liked those sorts, always stealing the good birds when we're out on the pull."

 

Hermione pauses, fingers her wand, and realizes that not even she could send a spell the thousands of miles it would need to go to shrink Harry's testicles to the size of chick peas. "Harry, please, that is not the point."

 

The television blares back to life over the phone. "Well, then, what is?" A snap-pop and slurping sound carry over the line. Hermione does a mental calculation, and figures it's just after breakfast in London.

 

"Harry, are you drinking?" Hermione thinks maybe she shouldn't be surprised by this. Harry's taken to being a rich layabout much easier than anyone but her thought he would.

 

"Course, it's Tuesday."

 

"Harry, it's Wednesday."

 

"Ah, well, that's too bad, meant to be at work today."

 

"Harry, you're meant to be at work every day."

 

"Ah, right, anyway, this Draco thing? Don't worry about it. He's just trying to get back at me, you know, for the old days. Wants back that raggedy old wand he lost on the Tower, really think he wants back the Elder, but he can fuck off on that one, it's mine. I couldn't tell you, wasn't paying attention, too busy ordering stuff on Amazon. Ron was telling me he's in school, but he's a prostitute, wouldn't know what kind of school teaches you that, but—"

 

Hermione weighs her options: Talk to Harry until he listens and comprehends and understands her level of pain around this very insane matter, or hang up and call Neville instead.

 

She does both and neither. She tells Harry she loves him, misses him, and to stop shagging Pansy Parkinson because she really doesn't want to read about it in _The Quibbler_ anymore, hangs up, and hides under her duvet.

 

*

 

Hannah cannot keep her mouth shut about Draco Malfoy and his apparent hotness. Hermione, for the most part, ignores Hannah's inane blabber, and answers Nora's questions with curt one word replies _("Back at school, was he dreamy?" "No." "I wonder what he smells like." "Leave." "Did you know that he refuses to get a new wand and hasn't caste a spell in years as a way to protest the Ministry?" "NOW!")_

 

Hermione's quite impressed with her ability to keep her cool on the subject of one Draco Malfoy, until she comes home from a mess of a lecture to a picture of Draco magicked onto the refrigerator in the flat, tiny hearts flashing around his face.

 

Hannah is sipping tea in the living room. Hermione stomps into the room hard enough to jingle the china delicately balanced on Hannah's lap.

 

"Look, alright, Draco Malfoy is a class-A arsehole who tormented me all throughout school—"

 

"You know what they say about boys who tease, Hermione?" Nora breezes through the room carrying a cloud of Burberry perfume. Hermione coughs and tries not to _Avada_ her into the Pacific.

 

"Yes, what she said, he probably wanted you, you know, like—" Hannah gestures with her tea, the liquid sloshing over the cup's rim and smelling suspiciously non-tea-like. The gesture is akin to either churning butter or getting electrocuted. "Bad, or summat."

 

Hermione stomps her feet some more. The cup doesn't jingle this time, mostly because Hannah is downing it at this point. "He called me a Mublood! He's an absolute wanker and I want him to get hit by a bus and die!"

 

Hannah coughs, spraying tea-flavored whiskey all over the couch. Hermione sighs, drops down to the driest portion and accepts the proffered flask that was previous hidden from view.

 

Nora stares at herself in the hallway mirror, makes minute changes to her hair. "For fuck's sake, Hermione, he was 11 years old! Do you want people to judge you for what you did when you were 11 years old?"

 

Hermione takes a sip, ponders this. Doesn't care. "He wasn't 11, he was 12. Old enough to know better."

 

Hannah wrenches the bottle away, pours a nip into her cup, caps it, and tucks it in between the cushions. "Fuck, not all of us are perfect, Hermione."

 

Nora's heels make loud noises as she pulls Hermione up off the couch and bustles her out the door. "You obviously need more to drink."

 

Hermione is unsure how she got home that night, and she is especially unsure as to why she was wearing pink cowboy boots in the morning. But she is pretty sure that she is never, ever, ever drinking vodka again.

 

*

 

Once she's pulled herself together enough to get dressed properly (nothing on inside-out or backward, very large designer sunglasses stolen from Nora covering her bloodshot eyes), she goes to her advisor's office and abuses her Lexus-Nexis account. One of the many good things about getting the hell out of England is that the international magical community has embraced Muggle technology, especially the internet. Hannah made it quite clear that she couldn't understand how Ron made it this far without ever having cyber sex.

 

There are a few hits for Draco Malfoy, mostly his attendance noted at conferences all over Europe, but there's one tartly worded letter to the editor of _Physics Today_ that has Hermione on Wikipedia by the second paragraph.

 

She starts digging even further, uncovers an abstract on MIT's website that has "D. Malfoy" as the primary author. Quantum physics, zero-point energy, and an unlimited power source. It's not until she breaks a pencil neatly down the grain that she realizes what Draco is trying to do: He's trying to uncover the source of all magic, and possibly, tap into that source. Which is probably why he needs _his_ wand, and not any other. Ollivander was a nutball, but there was a practical application to his madness. Hermione has been aware for years of the relationship between wands and their masters -- hard to forget after that night on the Tower.

 

So she keeps reading, cross-referencing what she can with the magical database stored on the university's servers. Draco's managed to keep his work totally off the magical radar, probably because he hasn't cast a spell since the war, and only resurfaced because, from what Hermione can tell, he needs his wand to continue his research in the States.

 

The sky is dark by the time she stumbles out of the building, pointed toward home. She's halfway down the street before she realizes that she has no fucking idea who Draco Malfoy grew up to be.

 

*

 

She defends her dissertation admirably, lets the girls take her out to get pissed, but draws the line at Red Bull and vodka, instead drinking whiskey and cokes for a solid four-hour stretch.

 

At some point between the karaoke bar and the strip club, she thinks that she may have agreed with Nora that _"Draco looks like the kind of guy who would fuck you up against the wall of the hallway, yeah, like he couldn't wait to get you into the bedroom, so he just does you right there and you can't stop him because you don't wanna, yeah?"_

 

Hannah graciously buys Hermione a lapdance with an enthusiastic stripper, says its on behalf of their entire reading group. (The group consists of Hannah, Nora, Hermione, and a guy named Eddie, who is 40 years old and as part of his mid-life crisis, decided to go back to school.)

 

The stripper is tall, blond, with skin the color of porcelain. Hermione wants to ask him how he keeps his skin so lovely, but she's distracted by the fact that Hannah apparently paid him so well that he's taken off his pants. Hermione thinks this must have been some magic involved, because she really has no idea where his pants went – one moment there, one moment _– poof! –_ gone.

 

She never did find out his skin care regime. But she does remember getting home in a mini-cab ("This is a terrible idea, he could be a murderer!" "I'm going to be sick.") and a night bus ("Where the fuck is the bus, fuck it, I'm just going to Apparate home!" "I will not let you Splinch yourself, Nora, sit down and eat your chips, for fuck's sake!"), even if she doesn't remember why Hannah passed out wearing a tiara.

 

*

 

Ron calls her that Saturday, as is the norm. He still shouts a bit when speaking on the telephone, but Hermione has taken to dialing down the volume when she sees his number on the caller ID.

 

He asks about her defense, which is nice of him, but then he asks when she's coming back to England, which is pretty crap of him.

 

"I'm not coming back, Ronald, there's no reason for me to come back. My life is here now."

 

"You know, if you came back, maybe we could have a go of it." He pauses, and she counts to ten. Backwards. In Greek. "Again."

 

"Yeah, I don't think so, Ron."

 

"Ah, well, had to give it a try."

 

"Sure you did."

 

"Speak to you next week?"

 

"Why not."

 

Hermione disconnects the call, sighs loudly and makes a promise to herself that she is going to get laid by someone who is not Ron Weasley this year. She then collapses onto the couch and watches a marathon of _Top Gear_ until Hannah gets home. They watch _Hollyoaks_ and eat the bag of prawn-flavored crisps that Nora bought by mistake last week when she was grocery shopping drunk.

 

"These taste like feet." Hannah says, grabbing another handful. "At least like Bernie Botts feet-flavored jellybeans."

 

"Yet you keep eating them." Hermione sprays a few crumbs down her front, brushing them away with a sticky hand. Someone on the screen dies, someone else cries. Hermione hasn't bothered to learn their names. "Did you know that Draco Malfoy is considered one of the up-and-coming premier minds in quantum physics?"

 

"I don't even know what quantum physics is, I'm studying Literature." Hannah throws a crisp in the air and catches it deftly in her mouth. "I'm looking forward to marrying rich or living on the dole for the rest of my life, why do you ask?"

 

"I dunno." Hermione tugs a blanket over her shoulders and pulls it close. "Just thought it was interesting that he went all Muggle."

 

"Why, because he called you a bad word when he was 12 years old? Because you thought he was a total prat who hated Muggles and all things related? And no one can ever change, even by growing up?" Hannah huffs. "And some would have said that you were the smartest witch in your year. Sad, that – Britain must be an even bigger mess than we think."

 

"He's still a total prat."

 

"And?"

 

"And, what? Give me back the crisps, you cow."

 

*

 

Hermione doesn't think about Draco for the next two days. Mostly because she spends the next two days arguing with her mother about going back to England. Apparently, at her annual check-up, the doctor found a lump in her mother's breast, and she's got it in her head that the doctors in London are better than the doctors in Sydney. Hermione starts arguing that if you're going to use that logic, might as well end up in the States, but then her dad gives her a look he doesn't use all that often and she shuts up and agrees to accompany her mother for a month-long stay.

 

*

 

She makes it through the flight thanks to a combination of Ativan, cheap wine, and Nora's sunglasses. She makes it off the flight thanks to her mother's sharp fingers dancing against her sides, digging into the ticklish flesh under her jumper. They part after checking in to their hotel, neatly split down the middle, Magical and Muggle. Hermione makes her mother promise to call her tonight if there are any problems.

 

"Go, have fun with your friends, my dear, I'm not dying or anything." She smiles, but Hermione sees the glimmer of fear in her mother's eyes.

  
But, it's not until she slumps into the tiny shower stall and smells the water that she realizes that she is truly back in London. Her hands shake so hard she forgoes shaving her legs, opts for trousers, instead.  
  
Harry meets her on the wizarding side of the lobby, legs splayed as he texts furiously on his phone. He's studiously ignoring the flashbulbs of the wizarding paparazzi. Hermione doesn't miss this part of the game. She stands close, nudges his boots with her own, and flaps her coat in his direction. He looks up, smiles wide and pulls her down onto his lap before she can protest.  
  
"Harry, for fucks sake, they're going to think--" The flashbulbs are going mental now, and Hermione doesn't suppress a giggle when Harry throws two fingers their way.  
  
He sets them both to rights and helps her into her jacket. He says, "I stopped caring what they think a long time ago, 'Mione, you should know," and she remembers that she does love him, if only a little bit, and not in that way. "Plus, gets me and Pans out of the society pages, at least!" He slaps her on the arse and she remembers why she wants to hex his nuts off. "Oh, and you and your mum are moving to Grimmauld Place tomorrow, you aren't staying in a hotel for a month, don't be ridiculous. And why is Perry not here with you, I'm sending for him on the jet I just bought." She starts to protest, but he's moving her out of the lobby and into the scrum of photographers. "On eBay!"  
  
 _The Prophet_ runs a picture of a deliriously delighted Harry Potter the next day with the headline: _POTTER'S LONG LOST LOVE BACK IN LONDON? PITS FOR PARKINSON-POTTER FANS!_ Harry makes her dad send her a picture message of his new plane, which he's christened THE HERMIONE because he's a big fat rat bastard.  
  
*  
  
Her phone is trilling something awful, and she can't seem to find a quiet corner in the entirety of the Oakmoor. There are people necking quite enthusiastically in the coat closet, and a set of giggling girls in the ladies. Finally, she calls for a house elf, and asks them for directions to the nearest private restroom. The elf looks at her askance, and Hermione feels like a great big heel. She remembers to punctuate her request with a "please" and a thin-lipped smile, when, really, all she wants to do is demand some peace and quiet so she can call her mother back.  
  
Finally, she's shepherded into a small room with a settee and large windows open onto a magical panorama of a lake. Or, at least, Hermione assumes its a magical panorama, since they're in the middle of London, and she's pretty sure there isn't a lake for miles.  
  
She dials her mother, who shakily tells her that she had a bit of a spill in the bath, but she's all right, _no, no, no, you don't have to come back, I'm fine, didn't even crack my head, thick enough as it is, anyway, wouldn't have done any harm, just, um, come say good night when you get in, yeah?_  
  
Hermione isn't sure how long she's been sitting there, reciting [insert some sort of old world religious bullshit] when Harry puts a warm hand on her shoulder, tells her that he'll take her back.  
  
*  
  
She's wrestling with a particularly complicated beauty charm for her hair when she hears the Floo activate downstairs. There's a racket and loud voices and cheering and suddenly, Hannah is shaking soot from her hair all over the bathroom floor _and getting it on Hermione's Midwinter dress_. But then she's pressing a glass of champy to Hermione's awestruck lips and finishing off the beauty spell and stage-whispering, "SURPRISE!"  
  
She does what she must -- takes the bottle right out of Hannah's hands, takes an enormous swig. Glass rattles against porcelain as she shouts invective at Harry, who she can hear laughing downstairs.  
  
*  
  
Nora is in the kitchen, engrossed in a discussion with Hermione's parents about flying vs. Floo-ing (Perry Floo-d once with Ron, lost his lunch all over Ron's trainers, never again. Helen thinks it feels like someone's turning you inside-out, but in a pleasant way. Hermione doesn't think about it, either way.), drinking from an enormous snifter of brandy. She's tarted up for Midwinter, as is Hannah, but they've taken care to actually dress warmly. There are spells for it, warming charms and such, but if you plan on getting blotto in the name of Brighid, usually is a good idea to leave as little as possible to magic.  
  
She doesn't even ask why or how regarding Hannah and Nora's unscheduled appearance -- they're wizarding types, through and through, and don't see anything in just showing up for a laugh. It's just like popping down to the pub for a pint to them, something Hermione's never gotten used to, no matter how much of her life is subsumed in the wizarding world. Like Midwinter, she started practicing as a teenager, as a way to learn more about a part of herself that had been foreign to her for 11 long years -- she doesn't care what people think of her for practicing the old ways as a Muggleborn, she just hopes that Brighid accepts her offerings and prayers in the best spirit possible.  
  
Hermione tightens her robes around her middle, cinching them with a tie as she steps into the room to a raised glass "hurrah!" from Hannah, who is sharing a mug with Harry. Everyone's cheeks are a little pink, and Hermione feels quite warm inside, not just from the copious amounts of champagne she let Hannah pour down her throat earlier. Harry slings an arm around her back, tucks her into his side and passes her his glass. Her parents grin. The fire crackles, and the house creaks merrily.  
  
She accepts this happy moment, decides to get spectacularly drunk.  
  
*  
  
"How did I not know that you're related to him?" Hermione's voice is quite pitched at this point, and she realizes the uncouthness of what she's just said to certain ears. Hannah cackles with unmistakable glee. "He's your third cousin, yet you kept winding me up about, 'Oh, Hermione, he's so dreamy!'" Nora's laughing so hard that she's started coughing, and she sits on a tree stump as she tries to catch her breath. "You're an absolute cow, I can't believe it, we're breaking up. We're not friends anymore." Hannah stops laughing, for a brief moment, but then Nora hiccups and they start up again, and Nora tugs Hermione down next to her on the (quite large) tree stump and passes her a flask filled with whiskey.  
  
"Don't worry, I'm not related to him, and I still want to shag him like madness." Nora takes back the flask, passes it over to Hannah, who's toppled over into some shrubbery, but has managed to crawl over to where they are sitting. There's a twig in her hair.  
  
"Ah, don't worry," Hannah pauses, takes a sip. "While the Blacks are known for their inbreeding, I will not partake in that particular splendor." She passes back the flask, roots around in her pockets and comes up with an entire bottle of something dark and quite alcoholic. "Plus, I saw him eat a slug once when we were seven years old."  
  
"He did NOT!" Hermione hears herself scream with glee, manages to stifle her resulting laughter against her sleeve as the bells begin to peel, signaling the start of the ceremony.  
  
The three girls stand up, struggling against each other and random bits of amorous tree life, manage to link arms and join the congregation. Hermione feels her wish weigh heavy against her skin, tucked into the folds of her dress. _For my mother's health,_ it says, and she knows it will not come true. She carries a second wish, one for her and her alone, the paper folded tightly against the first: _For a little peace._ She drops them both into the well, hopes that something good will come of this season.  
  
*


End file.
